


Birthday Gifts in a Pair

by CrazyPierrsonMan



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11357055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyPierrsonMan/pseuds/CrazyPierrsonMan
Summary: WARNING: NSFW! It's Larson's birthday! The two are spending it in an awful German hotel. What will Pierre give Larson for his birthday? ...Besides sex, I mean.





	Birthday Gifts in a Pair

Snow fell gently from the sky onto the streets below. Berlin was normally beautiful this time of year—but the view was somehow marred by the fishmonger’s shop that could be seen just out of their hotel window. At least the cold meant that the windows would remain firmly shut, preventing any potential stenches from wafting in.

The cold was a double-edged sword, however; the cheap hotel room the pair had rented came with the price of a nonfunctioning radiator. A small space heater came with the room, but on chill nights it proved to be nigh-worthless. When night fell, the two men had taken to stripping to their underwear and socks and cuddling, bodies intertwined, beneath the heavy duvet they had been provided by management.

At the present, when fully clothed, the room temperature wasn’t too bad.  Larson was sitting on the bed, watching a German-dubbed version of some American action flick—Pierre could never be bothered to remember their names. They all looked the same to him, all with the same plot with differences in one or two key elements. This wouldn’t stop the Nantesian from letting his cowboy watch what he loved, however, regardless of whether the blond could understand a word that was being spoken.

After all, even if Pierre was the type to tease his lover for his eccentricities, it would be considered quite the faux pas. Today was a special day for Larson Conway. December 5th, his birthday. It would be a day of relaxation for the two—it helped matters that they’d just successfully gotten to an artifact and managed to sell it to a very wealthy client. The reward was handsome, yet at the same time it seemed to be not nearly enough. Pierre had elected to squirrel away the remainder, with Larson in agreement.

While it seemed as though the stage was set for a lazy, idyllic birthday, something was weighing on the front of the brunet’s mind, face scrunching up in frustration when he thought on it. What the _hell_ was he supposed to get Larson for his birthday?

Larson had gone out and purchased himself a new revolver last week. His holster was in fine repair. He had no need of new clothing and he’d probably throw a fit if the Frenchman had tried to get him a new vest, even if it was an exact replica of the one Pierre had initially gifted him.

Sighing, the brunet turned away from his spot at the window. “Larson,” Pierre called over to his blond. “I am going to leave. I shall be back within two hours, _oui?_ ” Casting his gaze toward his lover, the younger man lifted an eyebrow. “Y’want some company, Boss? I don’t got much to do.”

Smiling, the Frenchman smoothly declined the American’s request: “Ah, it is the day of your birth, _mon cher,_ a joyous day indeed. You should not weary yourself by navigating the city streets. Why do you not work on your puzzle, ah?” As he finished his sentence, he gestured over to the small desk where sat a small 30-piece children’s puzzle, with colorful, numbered pieces on it. The blond had bought it on a lark, claiming it was ‘One of the most hardest puzzles’ he’d ever seen. Pierre had thought, for a moment, to point out the 100-piece puzzle that was in the store—when completed, it would assemble into Van Gogh’s _Starry Night—_ but the thought had quickly exited his mind.

Larson shrugged. “I dunno, Boss, she’s real difficult. I don’t wanna hurt my brain on my birthday, y’know?” But after a few seconds, he lumbered over to the desk chair and sat down, carefully examining the piece closest to his hand. Pierre sighed, suppressing the rising urge to roll his eyes, and leaned down, his right arm wrapping around the younger man’s shoulders. The older kissed him on the head, rubbing his lover’s arm with his hand. “You will complete it. You can do this, _mon amour._ I shall return soon.”

With that, Pierre made his way out the door, closing it tightly behind him, and turned his attention toward ignoring the fishmonger’s odor and finding a shop that might sell something that suited Larson Conway’s lifestyle.

 

***

 

The two hours he had promised Larson that he’d return in had come and gone. Morning was slowly progressing into afternoon, and Pierre still had not found one single shop that sold an item his cowboy would truly _treasure._ No, this couldn’t be just any old trinket—it had to be something special. The Frenchman prided himself on always giving meaningful gifts when it counted, and where Larson was concerned, it sure as hell did count.

But now he was at his wit’s end. Where in the world would he find a present in time? Would he return to the hotel empty-handed? No, it simply wouldn’t be done. Shaking his head, Pierre picked up his pace, resolute to redouble his efforts in seeking out the perfect birthday present for his beloved.

In his one-track state of mind, Pierre nearly zoomed right on by the leather creations shop, but stopped in his tracks when he saw them in the window—a pair of black leather boots, in a typical American Old West style, stood tall and proud in the window. 490€. And they were absolutely _perfect_ for Larson.

The Frenchman’s mind was made up. The price made no difference to him; after all, hadn’t the pair saved up for a reason? He entered the shop, firmly planting the idea in his mind that he would leave with those boots, come hell or high water.

 

***

 

It was done. They were placed inside of a box, wrapped, and it even had a nice little label on it: _‘From Pierre, to_ mon cher. _’_ Pierre knew that Larson would be tickled pink by the half-French rhyme, and even more shocked by the gift inside. Maybe it was a little cliché to expect a Southern American to wear stereotypical apparel—but the Frenchman had to admit, there was something… highly attractive about the typical cowboy look. It wasn’t all about looks, though, he assured himself. These boots were water-resistant, insulated, comfortable, and meant for hiking—which hopefully also expanded to spelunking and exploring ruins.

He was halfway to the hotel now. The package, covered in wrapping paper of a blue background with cartoon snowmen on it, was secured under the brunet’s left arm as he strode down the street with a spring in his step.

Pierre couldn’t stop thinking of Larson and, consequently, the fact that the older man had almost forgotten his companion’s birthday. The blond had _never_ forgotten an anniversary, holiday, birthday, you name it. But being the one who looks out for the two of them, Pierre often got distracted and, well, forgot. In fact, it was lucky that he managed to remember his companion’s special day in the first place.

He just couldn’t shake a lingering feeling of guilt at being the so-called ‘responsible’ one who never could quite recall any of their important dates. Even as their rented room came into view, Pierre had to force himself to bring a smile to his face. Opening the door, the brunet proclaimed, “ _Bonjour, mon amour!_ I have returned,” as cheerfully as he could muster. Closing the door behind him, his eyes fixed onto Larson, who looked up from his puzzle—it seemed as though he had only managed to find two pieces’ places while the Frenchman was gone—who gave a grin in return.

“Well howdy do, Boss. Good t’see ya,” the American drawled. He spied the package held in his lover’s arms, and chuckled. “Whatcha got there in yer hands? Somethin’ for li’l old me?” Pierre held it out, replying, “Actually—yes. I see no reason why you should not have it now. _Bon anniversaire,_ Larson!”

The younger man’s eyes lit up in wonder, taking the package hastily from his lover’s arms. “Aw, gee whiz, Boss, ya didn’t have to get me anything,” were the words he said, but his actions betrayed them; Larson ripped the paper off of the package, opened the box, as gasped. As he took out one of the boots, he laughed in delight, turning them over in his hands. “How’d you know I needed a new pair of these?” he asked, a big toothy grin spread across his face. Pierre gulped, licked his lips, and thought of what to say. Should he save face?

Larson waited intently, his smile lowering a bit but still joyous, and at last the older man sighed, his shoulders slackening, looking down in shame. “I did not remember until today it was your birthday. I had no present prepared. I… I had no idea you were in need of new boots.”

There was a moment of silence before the American set his gift aside on the floor and stood up, wrapping his arms around his companion. Pierre returned the embrace in kind. Kissing Pierre on the forehead, Larson replied, “Aw, Boss. I wouldn’t have minded if ya didn’t get me anything. Just havin’ you here with me makes every moment a good one.”

The brunet stared at the blond, into his beautiful hazel eyes—piercing and thoughtful, full of love and adoration. He closed the gap between their lips and the two men met in a kiss, which Larson took the initiative to deepen, tongues clashing and running across one another. The blond pulled Pierre onto the bed as they continued to kiss, the Frenchman roving his hands beneath the American’s untucked shirt to feel across the golden hair on his abdomen.

Larson chuckled into Pierre’s mouth as they pulled apart, the older man rolling over so they were side-by-side. “If ya don’t feel too good ‘bout just giving me some nice new shoes, why don’t you give me a stiff cock, too?” Both men were achingly hard after their make-out, tents having risen in the blue jeans each was wearing. Pierre didn’t need any more encouragement, beginning to unbutton Larson’s flannel shirt. The blond, meanwhile, undid his belt buckle and removed his belt, and unzipped his jeans before unbuttoning them and sliding them off. Revealed was a massive bulge jutting out from beneath black boxer briefs, pre-cum staining the fabric where the tip of his cock was.

After Larson’s flannel was no longer an obstruction, the brunet had taken to disrobing himself. Pierre removed his coat, and begun pulling his white long-sleeved sweatshirt off. When his vision was no longer obscured by the shirt he was removing, he saw that his lover, now clad only in his underwear, had shifted his position so his head and hands could swiftly undo Pierre’s belt and remove his jeans. The belt was tossed aside; the pants were unbuttoned; and the zipper went down. The Frenchman lifted his butt off the bed and grabbed the waistband of his jeans, pulling them down to his ankles and kicking them off. Exposed, it was clear that the pouch of his white jockstrap bulging in a similar state as Larson’s own underwear.

The two men laid there, hands roving across each other’s chests, each of them longing and adoring their lover’s respective body. “Boss,” Larson began, a lustful huskiness in his voice. He closed his eyes for a moment, opening them and speaking again. “Pierre. I don’t think I can wait anymore. I need your dick inside me.”

Pierre smiled, chuckling a bit at his lover’s impatience, but offered no rebuttal. Instead, lifting his index finger to indicate he’d be right back, he slid off his jock, hard dick springing free, and stood, taking a few steps over to the kitchenette. Right there on the counter sat a bottle of olive oil, used the last time the Frenchman had sautéed vegetables for a simple stew the two men had made together. He returned to his prone lover, who had since shucked off his own underwear and taken to earnestly attempting to stretch his hole out with spit and fingers. Pre-cum oozed gently down Larson’s cock as he tried to reach deeper, middle and ring fingers making a light scissoring motion.

The brunet lightly groaned appreciatively at the sight; lifting up the hand that was holding the olive oil, he spoke. “There is no need for that, ah? Monsieur is here with a remedy for all your stretching needs. It is the earliest form of lubricant for man-to-man relations, something dating back to the Greeks themselves.” Twisting the cap off, he drizzled the golden oil across his fingers. _‘Golden oil for a golden man,’_ Pierre mused absentmindedly, and crawled onto the bed. Larson flipped himself over on all fours, exposing his pink pucker for his lover’s easy access.

The Frenchman used his clean hand to rove over the hair on Larson’s back and ass appreciatively, but soon reached his oily index and middle fingers toward his lover’s awaiting hole. Slowly, he circled the hole to spread the lube across it, and sunk one crooked finger in, following it shortly with another. Larson shifted a little in discomfort, but uttered no words of opposition to the act. Pressing his fingers downward, Pierre found his conquest—Larson’s prostate. The American moaned loudly, not caring or knowing to stifle his moans on the chance someone else could hear them. Normally, the Frenchman would tell his lover to quiet himself, but he reminded himself, it _was_ his cowboy’s birthday… and the idea that someone might hear Larson moaning honestly turned Pierre on a little bit.

His cowboy gasped a bit. “Damn, them ancient Greeks sure knew what they was doin’.” The blond flipped over on his back, lifting his legs in the air, and took hold of them by grabbing the backs of his knees. “Take me like this, Boss. I wanna see your face.” Pierre stood up on his knees and leaned down, arms on either side of his lover’s body. His eyes roamed across that hairy body for a moment. The brunet never tired of seeing his cowboy in any sort of lewd, provocative position. This man was his everything, spiritually, emotionally, and physically. He leaned down to take Larson’s mouth in a kiss, tasting his lover’s tongue as the blond lowered his legs onto Pierre’s shoulders. Once more they embraced, the Frenchman taking hold of his hard cock and, after rolling back his foreskin to reveal his cock’s pre-cum slicked head, slowly pressed into the American’s wet, tight heat.

Larson arched his back in pleasure, breaking the kiss while his eyes clamped shut. “Aa-aahh, aw, Boss—Pierre, shit, goddamn—!” he moaned. The brunet’s cock was buried deep inside the blond’s hairy ass, and Pierre took a moment to allow his lover’s hole to adjust to the member it had to accommodate. Glancing downward, he saw Larson had lowered his hand from off of Pierre’s back and reached down, slowly stroking at his deliciously hard, mammoth cock. The older man was going to take a few moments before asking his lover if they could continue, but the younger licked his lips and spoke after a few minutes. “Boss, I’m ready for more. Give it to me hard, babycakes.”

Pierre laughed at the use of that endearment in the midst of sex, but merely replied, “Whatever the birthday boy wants, ah?”

The brunet shifted his arms to wrap around Larson’s neck, lowering his body down to meet his lover’s. Brown chest and stomach hair meshed against blond, and he rested his head on the side of the American’s neck, bringing his lips to kiss that neck gently. Pulling his cock out of Larson’s body, Pierre drove it back into that warmth once more, and began thrusting vigorously, trying his damnedest to please his beloved.

Flesh on flesh, filled with arousal, Larson bucked his hips upward to meet Pierre’s steady yet frenetic rhythm. The two locked eyes, each searching the other’s for lust and love, and, finding the mutual emotion, joined their lips again in a deep kiss as the brunet sped the thrusting of his cock in and out of his cowboy. Breaking the kiss, Larson reached between their bodies to stroke his cock with his right hand, his groaning filling up Pierre’s ears like a gorgeous symphony.

Pierre grunted, his eyes screwing shut as he drove two powerful, forceful final thrusts into the blond’s hairy hole, his cum spilling and filling deep within. The Frenchman gave a few shallow thrusts before he somewhat unwillingly removed his dick from Larson’s asshole, instead electing to shove his fingers inside again, fucking that cum-filled hairy hole with his fingers, reaching for his American’s prostate.

He found it. Larson nearly _screamed_ in pleasure as rope after rope of his thick cum sprayed across his stomach and chest, leaving wet, messy pools of white in almost uninterrupted lines of semen across his chest. Pierre sighed in satisfaction as Larson panted, sweat beading up on his brow and in his armpits. The older man wiped his fingers on his lover’s hairy thigh and collapsed next to him.

“ _Bon anniversaire, mon amour,_ ” the brunet repeated. Larson looked over toward him and kissed him on the lips. Pulling away slightly, faces still close, he said, “Thank—thank ya kindly, Boss. That was fuckin’ _amazin’._ ” Pierre nodded in agreement, and stood up, his cock still softening between his legs. “We are in need of a cleanup now, _non?_ I shall fetch us a towel.” On his way over toward the restroom door, he bumped his toes on something. Looking down, he noticed it was Larson’s new set of boots. He looked back at his nude companion, who was currently wiping some of his own cum out of his chest hair and bringing his messy fingers to his lips to taste.

Licking his fingers clean, he replied, “Maybe next time we fuck, I’ll wear those, ‘n my hat, but nothin’ else.”

A shiver of arousal ran down Pierre’s spine as he continued toward the restroom, and he realized the thought was causing his dick to stir in arousal once more. Opening the door, the Frenchman turned his head to the cowboy and grinned. He replied, “I believe this sounds _magnifique, mon cher._ Monsieur shall hold you to this idea, _oui?_ ”

Larson laughed in response. “I’ll be sure to make my Monsieur happy. After all, I never wanna disappoint my French-kisser.” Pierre exited the restroom, towel in hand. Tossing it at Larson, he said, “And I feel the same for my American cowboy.” As he tried his best to wipe his hairy body clean, Larson exhaled through the side of his mouth. “I’m colder than a witch’s tit,” he complained. “How’s about you and me get in a nice hot shower?”

The cold was getting to Pierre as well. “ _Oui,”_ he agreed, and continued, “And we shall leave this place soon after and be better off.” Larson chuckled, stood up off the bed and responded, “Hey, ain’t the worst place to spend my birthday—so long as I’m with you.”


End file.
